NINE

JANUARY 1948

IN THE VERY FIRST WEEK OF HER FOURTH YEAR AT TUKKIES Pérsomi had to choose her research assignment.

“We’re to pick a law that is less than two years old,” Pérsomi explained to Reinier as they walked between classes, “then analyze its potential long-term consequences. Many of them are really interesting.”

“Hmm,” he said. “That’s what’s called an oxymoron.”

“What?”

“The words law and interesting side by side in the same sentence. The language of law is so pretentious that I’m completely turned off.”

“It’s just legal jargon,” she said. “Anyway, they’re still much more interesting than the bunch of old buildings you dragged me to last year.”

“But you said you found them interesting!”

“Well, not the last two hundred.”

“We didn’t look at more than fifteen historic buildings in and around Pretoria!” he protested. “And it was my big research assignment of the year.”

“That’s why I’m asking you now,” she replied. “I helped you survey and take photos. Now it’s your turn to help me choose an interesting law.”

“Do you have one in mind?”

“Kind of. In 1946 Parliament passed the Asiatic Land Tenure and Indian Representation Act. I think it wants to restrict the locations where Indians can live and trade. There’s also something about their right to vote.”

“Indians can’t vote,” Renier said.

“I know, but what else could Indian Representation mean? I have to study it, then I’d like to speak to Yusuf’s family and find out how it will affect them.”

“Sounds like you don’t need my help to decide,” he said.

“Why this act, Pérsomi?” the professor asked. “The Asians don’t play an important role in our society.”

“In my town we know them all by name. Mr. Ismail and Mr. Ravat and the Moosas, all of them,” she said. “They are storekeepers. One of them, Mr. Ravat, owns the only hardware store in town. That’s besides the co-op, of course. But they don’t carry as much stock as he does. And he’s cheaper than the co-op and the General Dealer.”

The professor frowned. “Well, as background, you’ll have to examine the government’s official Asian policy before you analyze the content of the act. You know they’re not considered part of the South African population, don’t you? They’re to be repatriated to their fatherland as soon as possible. I really think you should choose another act. Stay away from politics, look at education instead, or housing, health, social legislature—there’s such a wide choice.”

“I’ll stick to this one, thank you, professor,” said Pérsomi.

Early one Thursday evening at the end of February, before the dinner gong, there was a soft tap on her door. “Miss Pérsomi,” a timid fresher said, “there’s someone at the front door for you.”

“Someone?”

“Yes, miss. A man, miss.”

“Thanks,” said Pérsomi and pulled a brush through her hair.

Outside a soft drizzle was falling. The dense green trees looked gray behind the misty rain curtain.

There was no one on the veranda. Pérsomi went out and looked down the street.

She saw his car first, shiny with moisture. Then she saw him. He was waiting just outside the gate. There were fine raindrops in his dark hair and his wet shirt clung to his body.

Her heart gave a leap. Boelie.

She closed her eyes for a moment, got her heart under control. Then she walked to him.

He turned toward her. His face was closed, dark.

She knew at once. She put her hand on his arm. “Your oupa?” she asked.

He nodded. “This afternoon, suddenly. My dad phoned.” “I’m really sorry,” she said.

He nodded. They stood in the soft drizzle, but he seemed unaware of the damp.

“Er . . . would you like to go for coffee?” she asked.

He nodded again and began to walk to his car.

They drove in silence. Persomi didn’t know what to say. She didn’t know if she should comfort him or just talk as if everything was normal.

They didn’t go to the usual place. They drove past the shops and the blocks of flats and houses, through an unfamiliar part of the city. They didn’t speak. But when they drove down a street with Indian stores, Boelie said, “They’ll have to clean up this slum.”

Pérsomi frowned. “What are you talking about? Who are they?”

“The municipality, the government,” said Boelie. “Just look at it. The natives are taking over the city center.”

“The natives are here anyway,” she said calmly. “They work here, that’s why they live here. And the whites need their labor. Without it our economy won’t survive.”

“Don’t make a political argument out of every remark,” he said.

Under different circumstances she would have accused him of starting it. Instead she simply asked, “Where are we going?”

“Out of the city, where it’s quiet,” he said.

She nodded. The streetlights began to come on. The streets were black and wet. The windows of the apartment buildings were shut.

“He had improved, he was doing fine,” he said suddenly. “When my ouma came into his room, he was just gone.”

Oom Fourie was dead. It was so final, she realized. “It’s a good way to go, Boelie, just like that, quietly.”

“Yes,” he said.

They drove past the last houses. Boelie switched on the headlights. The drizzle had stopped and the headlights threw shiny silver beams across the wet road.

On a hill outside the city Boelie pulled off the road. The sun had gone down, and the clouds began to disperse. A few stars were visible. “Let’s walk up here,” said Boelie and headed off.

She followed. They were accustomed to walking in the dark, had been since childhood. Their feet knew how to step carefully.

It was quiet. But it wasn’t their mountain. Their mountain had a bigger silence, a deeper peace.

“Look, there are a few stars,” said Boelie.

She gazed up. “It’s beautiful, but not as beautiful as our stars on the farm,” she said. “Ours are much brighter. Still, the city lights are also beautiful from up here.”

“The city has too many lights. They steal the glow of the stars.”

“You should have been a poet.” She smiled.

“I don’t know about that,” he said.

They sat down on the wet rocks and looked out over the sparkling city.

She was intensely aware of him beside her and missed the easy silence that used to enfold her when they sat close. She wished everything could be the way it used to be, before that winter morning in her first year, when he had taken her to the monument.

“The funeral will probably be on Monday or Tuesday,” he said. “Would you like to come?”

She shook her head. “I have a test on Monday. I’ll have to stay.”

He gave a deep sigh. “You know, Pers, he and I were always at loggerheads, especially about politics.”

She nodded.

“And yet I feel so . . . I don’t know.” He kept silent.

“Sad,” she said.

“Yes, sad.”

She nodded again. “I don’t believe disagreements break the ties of love. The members of your family have always had different opinions on politics, still there’s a strong tie between you.”

“Yes,” he said, “you’re right, you understand. When I think of them now, I feel the things we disagreed on were so . . . temporary, so trivial.”

“How you feel in your heart, your convictions, are never trivial,” she said.

“I just wish I could . . .” He shook his head.

She reached for him, then withdrew her hand.

Suddenly he got up. “Let me take you back, or you’ll miss supper,” he said. “Come.”

“Irene is angry with her oupa,” Reinier told her as they waited for the film to start at the biosphere.

“Because he died so suddenly?” Pérsomi asked.

“Must you always be so nasty about Irene?” he asked, annoyed. “It doesn’t suit you at all.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Why is she angry?”

“Haven’t you heard about the will?”

“No.”

“Would you believe Boelie inherited the farm and everything on it? In other words, the farm where Irene’s father worked so hard all his life now belongs to his son.”

After a moment she realized the implications of his words. “I don’t suppose Mr. Fourie is very happy.”

“He’s furious, Irene says. He’ll get a little cash, but that’s all. Her ouma inherits some cash and various items. De Wet gets the old Daimler and a house they keep in town. He left Irene and Klara nothing. All the rest goes to Boelie. Gosh, Irene is upset with my dad too.”

“Why is she upset with your dad?” asked Pérsomi.

“She thinks he should have persuaded her oupa to draw up a different will, or at least have warned her father in advance.”

“A lawyer can advise his client, but in the end he must do what the client wants,” Pérsomi said. “And your dad couldn’t have discussed the will with Mr. Fourie in advance, it would have been unethical.”

“I know, but try explaining it to Irene. She can be rather . . . unreasonable,” he said.

“You said it, not me.”

He sighed. “Yes, Pérsomi,” he said. “Just promise me one thing. The day you fall in love, choose someone uncomplicated, who doesn’t find a crisis behind every bush.”

She gave a slight laugh. “Someone like you?”

He gave a crooked smile. “Why not?” he asked.

“Maybe I should fall in love with you,” she said when she and Reinier sat eating sandwiches between classes a few days later.

Reinier burst out laughing. “Pérsomi, you’re one of a kind! You’ve clearly never been in love. You don’t have a clue what you’re saying. Listen, Annabel gave me two tickets for a show by some theatrical company. It’s in the old city hall on Saturday night, I think. Afterward they’re taking the show on tour through the bushveld or the Lowveld, or somewhere. Want to come along?”

“You’re not being very specific,” she said. “Perhaps you mean André Huguenet? What’s the name of the play?”

“I don’t know, Shattered by His Idol or some such thing.”

“Gosh,” she laughed, “it sounds dramatic enough. Yes, okay, let’s go take a look at those shattered idol worshippers.”

On Saturday she stood in front of her closet for a long time. She didn’t have much to wear. Her clothing supply from Reinier’s sister had dried up in her second year, and she wasn’t sure what to wear to an event at the city hall anyway. She had never seen a play, only the school’s operetta. She took her three evening gowns out of her closet. Her favorite was the deep-red satin dress, but she had worn it on many occasions, including Klara’s wedding to Antonio and the ball she’d gone to with Reinier earlier in the year.

She spread out the second dress. It was a glossy deep-blue taffeta gown with a sweetheart neckline. She felt pretty in it. She had worn it only twice, and never with Reinier. But she decided it was too extravagant.

All that remained was the sophisticated black velvet dress with the plunging neckline and the long slit at the back. She had never had the courage to wear it, but she remembered Klara’s words: “You’d look ravishing in it.”

Dress, it’s you and me tonight, she finally decided. Behave yourself and stay up, d’you hear?

She put on her new strappy shoes and studied her image in the mirror.

When she went down to the front door half an hour later, she knew she looked good. Reinier stood waiting for her, in a dark suit and bowtie.

“Wow!” he said as they headed for his car. “Which fairy tale did you step out of?”

“You choose: The Ugly Duckling, Cinderella—”

“Not Cinderella, or old Bucket might leave us in the lurch tonight like that pumpkin carriage,” he protested. “What about Pérsomi, Princess of Tukkieland?”

“There’s no such fairy tale,” she laughed.

“Seriously, you look beautiful.”

“Thanks,” she said. It was always good to be with Reinier—relaxed, easy. Fun.

At the city hall there was a sea of cars. She felt a thrill of excitement. Tonight she was going to see a play with real people in it, well-known actors.

Twenty-one years ago her father went to see a show, and left with her name.

In that moment she realized she didn’t want to know her father’s identity. It would be better if she never knew. There were too many things she wanted to say about how he had treated her mother.

The foyer of the old city hall was packed. Some of the women were in fur coats or fur cloaks, some had ornate opera glasses with which they could watch every movement on stage. The men wore dark suits and spoke in droning voices.

She saw a beautiful woman standing on the first step leading to the balcony, her hand in a long black glove resting elegantly on the ornate railing. Pérsomi recognized the style of her dress from the fashion plates in the latest Brandwag. It was Dior’s New Look: the full, wide floral silk skirt reaching almost to her ankles, the snug top with the shoestring straps over her bronzed shoulders, the short black velvet jacket draped nonchalantly over one shoulder.

It was Annabel.

Boelie stood beneath her on the steps, broad-shouldered in his dark suit. He was looking at Annabel and the two of them were laughing.

Pérsomi felt a sharp pang pierce her like a lightning bolt.

“Why, there’s Annabel,” Reinier said cheerfully. “Let’s say hello, we’re probably sitting together.”

Pérsomi felt her skin crawl with the urge to run. She drew a deep breath and stayed with Reinier. She saw Boelie’s eyes darken when he noticed her. Was her neckline too low? Was the gown too snug?

Her gaze shifted and she saw Annabel’s disapproving look, as if she wanted to say, Reinier, don’t tell me you’ve dragged her along! And that dress—please, it’s a war model, six or seven years behind the fashion!

“Evening, you two,” Reinier said. “Nice and warm in here after the cold outside, isn’t it?”

Pérsomi lifted her chin. “Good evening,” she said.

“Yes, evening,” said Boelie, sounding formal.

“Hello,” said Annabel. She didn’t look at Pérsomi. “Shall we go in?”

On her way home for the April vacation, Pérsomi paid a visit to Yusuf.

“Miss Pérsomi Pieterse!” Mr. Ismail said, surprised when she appeared on the stoop of his shop. “Have you come to buy everything in my store?”

She laughed. “Just wait till I’ve finished my studies, Mr. Ismail, and I’m earning bags full of money. Actually I came to talk to Yusuf. Is he here for the vacation?”

“He’s inside, please go in,” said Mr. Ismail, opening the door wide.

The shop was still dark inside, still smelled of tobacco and maize flour and curry powder and new leather. And strange incense. The huge bags of maize flour and sugar still stood on the wooden floor, the piles of blankets still reached to the ceiling.

“In all of Pretoria there’s no store that comes close to yours,” said Pérsomi as she entered.

Yusuf was equally surprised to see her. They talked for a while, sharing stories about student life and their studies. Then she said, “I’m actually here to do some research.”

“Research?” he asked, puzzled.

“Yes. You see, we have to analyze a recent law for its possible long-term consequences. I’ve decided on the Asiatic Land Tenure and Indian Representation Act,” she said. “Do you know anything about it?”

His expression changed. “Every Indian in the country knows about it.”

“Good, because it’s what I want to speak to you about,” she said.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” he said, almost aggressively.

“I just want to know how you feel about it.”

“Well, how do you think we feel?”

“I suppose you . . . don’t feel good about it,” she said warily.

“That’s putting it mildly. People are angry.”

“I understand. Tell me exactly why?”

“Many of our people have been in this country for generations, some longer than the people who are pushing these acts through parliament.”

“It’s a good point, I’ll look into it,” she said, making a quick note.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” He began to light the Primus stove.

He’s in a better mood now, she thought. “I’d love some, thanks,” she said, “And remember, don’t—”

“I know about the milk and sugar,” he said.

“How do you feel about the restricted land ownership?”

“It’s the real reason why my people are so angry.” He slammed the kettle down on the Primus stove. “We Indians have never had complete freedom of movement in the Union, but now we’re being restricted even further in where we’re allowed to live and trade! Dr. Naicker calls it the Ghetto Act. It’s pure Hitler racism, Pérsomi—that’s what it is.”

“Who’s Dr. Naicker?”

“Dr. G. M. Naicker, one of our leaders. The other one is Dr. Yusuf Dadoo.”

She wrote down the names. “Leaders in what?”

“The Indians have a tradition of satyagraha, passive resistance, the heritage of Mahatma Gandhi. In 1913 he—”

“I know his story.”

“We have two political organizations, the Natal Indian Congress and the Transvaal Indian Congress,” Yusuf continued. “The membership numbers of the Natal Congress are rapidly increasing. Here in the Transvaal we don’t have any registered members, but our congress is also very active, especially among the students at Wits.”

“How active, besides passive resistance?” she asked.

“Very.”

“How?”

“Pérsomi!” he warned her.

“Well, answer me,” she insisted.

“Except for boycotting things, which you’d probably classify as passive, we also arrange meetings to inform people. Lots of people attend, not all of them Indian.”

“Are you active as well?” she asked.

“Yes, of course,” he said.

“Just don’t get interned like Boelie,” she warned him, “or you’ll also have to wait four years before you can finish your studies.”

“No,” he shook his head, “I’m more like De Wet. Active, but on the right side of the law.”

“Better be careful,” she warned.

“When the law was first introduced, thousands of people, I think more than fifteen thousand, held a march in Durban. A group pitched tents on a piece of land in the traditional Indian business district, now rezoned for whites. A group of white hooligans began to harass them every night, later by day as well, and quite a few Indians died, mostly of their injuries. The police did nothing.”

“Impossible, Yusuf,” she said firmly. “The police wouldn’t stand by and watch while people were being killed.”

“It didn’t happen under the noses of the policemen,” he said. “Dead people in the streets aren’t something the police can overlook, yet no one was prosecuted.”

“Hmm,” she said, “I’ll see what I can find out.”

“I can give you the name of one of my friends, Benny Sischy. He was there. He was an eyewitness. I don’t know his address, but he’s at varsity with me. If you write a letter, I could give it to him.”

“Yes, perhaps I should, thanks,” she said.

“There’s also a cleric, Michael Scott,” Yusuf said. “He could give you a lot of inside information.”

“You’ve been a great help, Yusuf,” she said, pleased. “What’s the story about certain Indians getting the vote?”

“Only those who qualify will be able to vote for a few white representatives in parliament, not our own people,” he said.

“But you’ve never had the vote, have you?”

“Some Indians did. In the Cape, I think.”

“I don’t know, I’ll make sure.” She made a note.

“I believe it’s so, and they’re going to lose the right to vote now. The law is an insult to Indian people. We’ve sent representatives to India, England, and America to state our case. There’s more tea in the pot. Shall I pour you another cup?”

From Mr. Ismail’s store Pérsomi dropped in to see De Wet at the De Vos law offices. He had suggested they might have work for her to do through the vacation.

The carpet in the reception area was thick, and there were two leather armchairs and a table with books. A corseted lady with purplish gray hair sat behind the desk. To her left was a big window on which was written De Vos and De Vos, and in smaller letters underneath: Attorneys, Notaries, Conveyancers, Agents, Auctioneers.

Was it possible she might work in an office like this next year? De Wet introduced her. “Ms. Steyn is our secretary. She says she has plenty of filing you can help with if you wish?”

The secretary nodded. Behind her hung a large painting of impala drinking from a muddy pool. On the desk stood a vase with fresh flowers.

“Yes, I’d like to,” Pérsomi said. “Thanks.”

“Have you met Mr. De Vos?” De Wet asked.

“I know what he looks like. I’ve seen him with Reinier and Annabel, but I’ve never met him in person,” said Pérsomi. “But surely there’s no need, De Wet?”

“I think he’d like to meet you,” De Wet said easily. “Come along.”

She followed him down a short passage, also carpeted. On the walls was a collection of old photographs, including one of Reinier’s grandfather, the town’s first lawyer.

At the end of the passage De Wet tapped on a door before opening it.

Half the space was taken up by a large desk made of dark wood. The polished top glistened in the overhead light. Mr. De Vos sat behind the desk. He was a big man with a ruddy complexion and a bald head. He peered at them over his spectacles. He didn’t seem very pleased by the interruption.

“Oom Bartel,” said De Wet, “this is Pérsomi. I told you about her. She’s come to help us over the vacation.”

Mr. De Vos rose halfway to his feet. He was not only broad but tall as well. And he was frowning. “Yes, I believe she was at school with Reinier,” he said.

“That’s right,” said De Wet. “She’s studying law at Tukkies.”

Mr. De Vos lowered himself back onto his chair.

When De Wet closed the door again, he said apologetically, “He must be very busy. Usually he’s much friendlier.”

Pérsomi was glad Reinier didn’t take after his father, but Annabel’s personality now made more sense.

Klara insisted Pérsomi attend Irene’s coming-of-age party. She meant well but didn’t understand. Because while Pérsomi and Reinier mingled with guests in the decked-out barn, Auntie Sis and Ma were in the kitchen in their Cinderella outfits, washing the dishes. And Annabel was on the dance floor, glued to Boelie, wearing an incredible emerald gown that would no doubt end up in the welfare pile next year.

“Come on,” Reinier said, “you can’t hang around the food all night, it’s time for dancing.”

She held back. “You know I don’t really dance.”

“Well, it’s your choice,” said Reinier. “Either you come willingly, or we make a scene.”

“That’s not a fair choice!”

“Who said life is fair?” He took her firmly by the hand and led her to the dance floor, where he gave her a playful twirl. He laughed and began to move in time with the music.

Because it was a waltz, the only dance she had mastered, she stayed.

“Stop being so unwilling. It’s quite nice, don’t you agree?” Reinier persisted.

He didn’t understand either. After all these years Pérsomi still didn’t belong here. But she noticed that no one gave her strange looks. Everyone kept right on dancing as if she did belong. Maybe it was her own fault that she still felt like a barefoot child among real people.

But as they danced past Boelie and Annabel, she felt Annabel’s ice-cold, critical gaze on her. The fighter in Pérsomi came to the fore, and she returned the stare. She knew she looked good in Annabel’s cast-off dress.

She couldn’t look at Boelie, however. It was hard for her to see how comfortable Annabel seemed in Boelie’s arms, how they moved as one in the dance.

Someone put a new record on the grammophone, and everyone gathered in a circle. “Tango!” they cried. “Where’s Annabel?”

A laughing Annabel floated into the circle. “Come, Boelie, no excuses, I’ve shown you how,” she said coyly.

Boelie laughed and stepped into the circle. Smiling, he held out his hand to Annabel.

They danced the tango. The way it should be danced.

The other guests clapped to the beat of the music.

Pérsomi stood at the outer edge of the circle. It was clear there was an established bond between the man and the woman on the dance floor.

She turned away.

For the rest of the evening she stood in the shadows. She saw Oom Freddie dance with one woman after another. She saw Old Anne’s neck stiffen and her mouth turn into a thin, straight line. She saw the eyes of all the young men following Annabel in her revealing dress and noticed that Boelie did not stray from her side all night. She saw Reinier dance with Irene. She saw Mrs. De Vos, Reinier and Annabel’s mother, down one glass of brandy and Coke after another.

Close to midnight Pérsomi began to gather dishes from the tables to carry them to the kitchen. Someone touched her arm and spoke softly into her ear.

“My turn.” Boelie steered her toward the dance floor.

“Boelie,” she said anxiously, “I really don’t dance well. Actually I can only waltz. This is certainly not a waltz.”

He didn’t answer, just gripped her arm more firmly.

“Boelie, please!”

“Just follow my lead,” he said. On the dance floor he put his arm around her waist. She felt his hand rest lightly on her back, his other hand folding around her own. Slowly, without speaking, he began to dance. Her body was tense as she tried to follow his movements.

“Relax, Pers,” he said softly.

She made a deliberate effort to relax, as she had learned to do on the track. She allowed the lilting music to sweep her along, she followed where he led, she was acutely aware of his proximity.

“It’s not so hard after all, is it?” he spoke into her hair.

She nodded, too afraid to say anything.

In the morning she was in the barn before daybreak to finish cleaning. She prayed that Boelie wouldn’t be there to help. The barn looked like it had been struck by a tornado. She pushed the empty trash can to the door and began to fill it.

Her thoughts turned to her assignment. There were so many facts she wanted to include, so many loose threads to be tied up before it was due in a few weeks. She had finished the letter to Benny Sischy. She would give it to Yusuf when she and De Vos went to town this morning. And she’d write to Michael Scott. She just wasn’t sure where to get hold of his address.

Two empty wine bottles landed in the can with a clang.

She would have to search in the university library for old newspapers, maybe—

“Gosh, you’re an early bird!”

Boelie’s voice at the door made her jump. Her heart was in her throat.

He laughed.

“Jumpy?” he asked as he entered the barn. “What were you thinking about?”

“My . . . assignment.” Her voice sounded strange. She swallowed. It was only Boelie.

But her heart didn’t listen.

He began to pull the straw bales away from the wall. “You don’t have to help clean.”

“I promised your mother I would,” she said.

“Can you believe it? There’s a whole nest of glasses behind this bale. Bring the basket,” he said. “What’s your assignment?”

“It’s about the Asiatic Land Tenure Act,” she said, passing him the basket.

“Yes, I know about it,” he said. The glasses clinked as he put them in.

“I had a very interesting conversation with Yusuf Ismail last Monday.”

“You didn’t have to talk to him. You could just read about the repercussions in the papers,” he said.

“I did that too,” she said. “The Indians are up in arms, and I think they have a valid point. Careful, you’re going to break those glasses.”

“Valid point?” he asked skeptically. “You’re wrong there. The Indians ought to know their place in this country. They should behave, or they should return to India. They shouldn’t try to act like whites.”

Carefully she put the basket with the dirty glasses on a chair. “Boelie, if the traders are restricted in where they’re allowed to trade, or the doctors and lawyers are told where they may practice, how can they run their businesses properly?”

“In this country,” Boelie said emphatically, “we must look after ourselves, Pérsomi. The interests of the whites, specifically the Afrikaners, come first. Do you realize how many clients the General Dealer and the Farmers’ Co-op have lost because Ismail sells his inferior products at a cheaper price? For once, the Khaki government is acting strictly, and it’s a good thing. Lawyers and doctors and teachers and traders, the whole caboodle, are being arrested and chucked into jail, hundreds of them, if not thousands.”

She straightened and looked him in the eye. “Doesn’t that sound familiar to you?”

He frowned, puzzled.

“What did you fight for? Why were you and a whole caboodle of lawyers and doctors and teachers willing to be imprisoned behind barbed wire five years ago?” she asked earnestly.

“For the God-given rights of the Afrikaner nation.”

“For the rights of your people?”

“Yes,” he said. “And if I had to choose again today, I’d choose the same route.”

“And isn’t it the same route these people are also choosing? Aren’t they also standing up for what they believe are the rights of their people?”

“For goodness’ sake, Pérsomi, this is not their country! They’re visitors, laborers. India is their fatherland! They should go back there.”

“And if their fathers and their fathers’ fathers were born here? Our forefathers came from Europe. Why is the Union our fatherland but not theirs?”

Boelie swore. “Don’t be so naive to believe the curried hogwash Yusuf Ismail feeds you. The whole lot are Communists, including Yusuf Ismail.”

“Why do you say that, Boelie? Do you have proof?”

“Heavens, woman, must you always have proof of everything?”

“Don’t heavens, woman me!” she snapped.

He looked up, a strange expression on his face. It passed swiftly.

“When the National Party gets voted in, their attitude is one of the first rotten apples that must be got rid of.”

“If the National Party gets voted in,” she said.

“You’re trying my patience this morning,” he said. “I’d better leave.”

He strode out of the shadowy barn into the bright sunlight. She followed him with her eyes as he strode toward the kraal, his broad shoulders stiff, his head high.

A deep sadness grew inside her. She stood alone in the chaotic barn. Alone she took the burned-out lanterns from the wall hooks, alone she packed the last dirty glasses in the basket.

Alone she folded one tablecloth after another.

Her mother came through the barn door to help.

“Pérsomi, you must stay away from boyfriends, you’re looking for trouble,” her ma said.

“What?”

But that was all her mother was willing to say.

The Indians refer to this act as the Ghetto Act,

Pérsomi wrote in the conclusion of her assignment.

I doubt whether it’s possible to apply the law successfully. To date no Indian has agreed to serve on the Land Tenure Advisory Board.

Furthermore, it is my opinion that the consequences of this law will be more far-reaching than the lawmakers could ever have foreseen.

In the first instance, it has made people who were favorably disposed toward whites for decades turn against them. It deeply upset families who lost a brother or son in the recent war—relatives of young men who lost their lives serving the same government who now wants to restrict their parents’ opportunities to trade (see interviews and letters, addenda one and two).

Furthermore, the Asiatic Land Tenure Act gave rise to closer cooperation between the various Indian Congresses, the ANC and the Coloured population’s African People’s Organisation (APO), as is clear from recent pronouncements by the President General of the ANC, A. B. Xuma, in the press (see addendum three).

On their part, the Indians have developed sympathy with the black population, as was evident during the black miners’ strike of August 1946 (see reports in addendum four).

The Indian people have won considerable support from the white population, culminating in the establishment of the Council for Asian Rights in Johannesburg (report and photographs, addendum five).

The law also had international repercussions when India tabled the matter for discussion and action at the UN, and opposed South Africa’s application to incorporate Southwest Africa with the Union (see addendum six). If the application is denied, it could be considered a direct consequence of the act.

In conclusion, I am of the opinion that the Asiatic Land Tenure Act has never been a viable proposition and is presently leading to anarchy rather than good order.

When her assignment was returned a week later, there was no grade on it. Neither were there any comments. Only a message: Come and see me.

She made her way to the professor’s office, her heart heavy. What could be wrong?

The professor looked up when she entered, then back down at the documents on his desk.

Gently she laid the assignment on the desk between them.

He picked up the assignment and paged through it.

She waited.

“Your elucidation and analysis of the finer legal points, and your research, are excellent,” he said at last.

Her heart was in her mouth.

“Your command of language is admirable, also the structure of the assignment and your referencing.”

Her blood seemed to flow slowly, heavily.

The professor looked at her. “The problem I have is with the conclusion you reach.”

Her blood no longer reached her brain. Her head ached.

“Pérsomi, our university endorses lofty Christian National principles. Our department has a specific culture, an ethos, of which we are proud.”

She licked her dry lips. “I don’t understand, professor,” she said.

He picked up the assignment and turned to the last two pages. “This conclusion,” he said and tapped on the words, “borders on the propagation of Communism. I won’t have it in my department.”

The professor took his time to remove his spectacles. At last he said, “I’ll give you the opportunity to change the conclusion. You can hand in your assignment at the end of the week, after which it will be graded.”

He put his spectacles back on his nose. The conversation was clearly at an end.

“Professor, what grade will you give me if I don’t change my conclusion?” She forced the words past her constricted throat.

He looked up, troubled. “Fifty percent. Fifty-five at most,” he said.

She felt the words pierce her body. Her throat closed up. “Then I won’t get a distinction,” she said. She would lose her scholarships.

“It’s your choice. I can’t accept the assignment as it is.” He removed his spectacles again. His smoky blue eyes seemed rimmed with gray. “You’re my top student, Pérsomi. You’ve passed every year with distinction. It would be a pity if you don’t graduate cum laude because of two pages of one assignment. I warned you at the outset to pick another law. I told you it’s a sensitive matter, but you insisted on having your way. We dare not underestimate the onslaught of Communism in our country.”

She remained silent for a long time before she said, “I know very little about Communism, professor, and it’s the last thing I was trying to propagate. What I do know is that I can’t change my conclusion. It is my honest opinion.”

“Then I can’t change your grade,” he said.

She thought for a moment. Then she lifted her chin. “When is the absolute deadline for the assignment?” she asked.

“The test series begins on Monday,” he said. “I can’t give you more than two weeks’ deferment.”

“I’ll hand in another assignment on a different law. In time,” she said.

She turned on her heel and walked out, gently closing the door behind her.

She left the assignment lying on his desk and didn’t mention it to anyone.